Pastures New by Julia Williams

had been nearly three, and Sarah a baby, but he could still recall with clarity the moment the vicar poured water on her head, and she had squawked loudly. He remembered too how proud he had been watching David, his senior by five years, marching down the aisle at Harvest Festival, holding the banner for the Scouts, and how he had longed for it to be his turn. But by the time his turn came, the world had changed, thechurch had become a place of mourning, and his memories were spoilt by the horror of Sarah’s funeral, and the awful pitiful wail of anguish that had come unbidden and uncontrolled from his mother’s lips, and the weird and unsettling sight of his father crying. By the time that Ben had held the banner for the Scouts, such things didn’t seem to matter any more.
    Ben stared up at the high altar, a welter of emotions swirling around him. Why did he put himself through this annual torture? The rest of the year he could hold all this at bay quite easily – and he didn’t have to come here, his parents probably never even knew he came. But somehow, he felt he owed it to Sarah – a mark of atonement almost.
    He went to light the candle he lit every year, and remade the promise he had first made all those years ago so that Sarah’s death would mean something. He couldn’t save her, but he could and would save others. Ben wasn’t particularly religious, but this simple act of remembrance, while immensely painful, always did him good. And his heart was somewhat lighter when he emerged into the grey wintry day.
    When he got back in the car, he realised he had missed the end of the song, and so he replayed it. On second hearing it didn’t seem quite so gloomy – offering more hope than sadness. Caroline had emailed him again to ask if he would come out at Christmas. He thought fleetingly of Amy. It might be nice to see more of her during the holidays, but her reaction to the bike incident had only served to remind him how vulnerable she was. Did he really want to get involved? Andwhat was he to her anyway? Nothing, probably. And what was there here for him at Christmas? His parents always went to David’s and Ben tended to work through. Maybe skiing in Colorado was a good idea. Perhaps he would take Caroline up on her offer after all.

    ‘Well, that’s the lot then.’ Amy sat back and looked in satisfaction at the winter table displays piled up on Saffron’s kitchen table. Fronds of leaves and bits of green littered the floor, along with the odd discarded red and white chrysanthemum, a couple of bunches of red roses, several poinsettia and copious amounts of ribbon. There were two empty cans of gold paint spray heading for the bin, and one half-full can of silver paint left. It had been a good morning’s work, and Amy was about to set off for the neighbouring town of Upper Langley to hand them out to the rich and pampered good ladies of the parish, who seemed to have oodles of time to visit the local nail bar, but rather less for tedious things like flower displays. Thanks to Amy’s bright idea to put her leaflet into beauty salons as well as hairdressers the phone hadn’t stopped ringing.
    ‘I don’t think I want to see another pine cone ever again,’ said Saffron with a groan. ‘Remind me, who wants this lot?’
    ‘It’s for Linda Lovelace.’
    Saffron snorted. ‘That’s not her real name, surely?’
    ‘No,’ said Amy. ‘Her real name’s Linda Lowry. She’san exotic dancer. Didn’t I tell you about her? I went round to take her order and she sat me down in the middle of her lounge, complete with pole-dancing kit, and told me all about it.’
    ‘You’re joking,’ said Saffron, roaring with laughter.
    ‘Nope,’ said Amy. ‘She even offered me lessons. Funnily enough, I declined.’
    ‘Oh that is sooo funny,’ said Saffron. ‘And there was me thinking that Upper Langley was the height of respectability. You’ll be telling me next that Mary Pritchard--Jones is a high-class